letters from the "homewrecker"

To the first girlfriend

I didn’t know your name until it was too late.

He said you were distant, already halfway gone,

and I believed him because I wanted to.

I was nineteen and drunk on

any hand that reached for mine.

If I had known your favorite song,

or the color you painted your nails

I might have stepped back—

but I only knew the way he looked at me

like I was a secret sunrise.

To the second girlfriend

You must have wondered about me.

The late-night texts he swore were about work,

the sudden quiet when you entered the room.

I never meant to haunt your evenings,

but I was clinging to the way he said

you make me feel alive.

I thought that meant chosen.

I thought that meant forever.

You should know I pressed my lips

against the promise, not against you.

If pain has a shape, it looks like

the silhouette of someone walking back home

to someone else.

To him

I replay your words like lullabies—

sweet nothings dressed as eternity.

Did you know I kept the receipt

from the diner where you first touched my hand?

It’s faded now, but I kept it anyway,

like proof I wasn’t just a story

you told yourself to survive the summer.

I don’t hate you.

I just wish you hadn’t said

I’ve never felt this way before

when what you meant was

I’ve never felt this way for long.

To myself

I am softer for it.

I am scarred for it.

I am a girl who once mistook

borrowed light for a galaxy.

I have learned that wanting love

is not a sin,

but sometimes the way you reach for it is.

If I ever find him—

the one who stays,

the one who looks at me

and doesn’t look away—

I’ll tell him I have been waiting

my whole life

to write letters

that don’t have to apologize.